She reached for his hand and held it. She didn’t want to go to Germany. She didn’t want him to go either, lest he realise how much better he had it without all their burdens.
“Surely we can find a way to stay here, Florian. From what the people say, the economy in Germany and Austria are not much better than here. Nor are the politics. They’re just wearing brown shirts instead of black.”
Florian nodded, and something in her believed he would give up on the idea, that his heart wasn’t in it. Not really.
There was a knock on the door, and Opa asked whether they were planning on sleeping in. She held the primer, and as Florian finished dressing, she turned to the last page, to the vocabulary list.
Inospitale. Inhospitable. Not dull. She had to correct Iris.
She laid the book on the nightstand, feeling a tug at her heart—that yearning she’d felt for the phantom in her dream—and a sadness settled in her, as with the loss of something dear.
***
F lorian received permission to travel across the border within days, and the night before he left, Katharina placed his hands on the baby in her belly and had him feel it moving. He fell asleep with his hands on her middle, and she did not move so as not to lose his touch.
When he was gone, the house was cavernous, what with Opa as silent as a mute. She had to do something. She decided to unload her heavy heart and try writing that letter.
The first version filled pages and pages of all that she felt about the matter: her sorrows, her regrets, and the truth about Annamarie’s existence and how guilty she felt. She wrote about her growing love for Florian and her fear that he was unhappy. The next morning, she felt strangely released from the grips of her deeds and held the letter before the stove’s door.
One day, she thought, the tension with the Italians would pass. It had to. One day, it would be acceptable for Annamarie to know who her real father was, wouldn’t it? She stuffed the letter into her apron pocket and, after breakfast, went back upstairs, to the foot of her bed. She lifted the pine chest’s lid and packed that letter away with the bloodstained shirt at the bottom. The years might eventually soften the blow.
Two weeks later and six versions of a letter she could finally send to Angelo, Katharina realised how little she knew about Annamarie’s father. She had gotten up when Opa was asleep and written until her hand had cramped and the lights had gone out, and the lamp too. At first she’d tried to write in Italian, until she realised her primer was a poor substitute for making an eloquent plea. With all those drafts, she started the next morning’s fire.
By the time she was satisfied with the version she could send to Angelo, she had the whole letter memorized. As a partial peace offering to Opa, she showed it to him, but she was still unconvinced by Opa’s logic.
“Dr Hanny should send him our plea,” she said.
But Opa said that there was surely someone at the ministry who could still read and translate German. He said nothing about the content. Instead, he told her to add the address of the geologist in Munich and gave instructions. “Georg Roeschen and Dr Hanny will know what to do when the time comes.” He avoided her questioning look. “First, it has to be personal.”
Next day, she bundled up Annamarie for the post office in Graun, and as they walked, fragments of the letter ran through her head. The phrases she’d kept: Our efforts to address our concerns here in the valley have not been met with any recognition from your predecessors. The feelings she did not commit to paper. Are you married? Do you have children? Have you any idea what you have left behind? Her letter had focused on reasoning with him, as Opa had suggested. I have been asked to write to you by members of the community because they feel that the goodwill we showed you in bringing you back to health, indeed saving your life, could be the foundation of a trusted cooperation.
Angelo had shown her compassion the last time she had seen him. The day she took the bike and chased him down, the day he played the charade at Dr Hanny’s expense. She hoped he was still the same man, even if he wore a black shirt. Especially because he did so, she could want nothing further from him. Nothing at all.
Annamarie sniffed and dragged her feet. They were at the wayward cross. “Mama, tired.”
“We’re almost there.”
“Carry.”
“No, child. You must walk yourself. Your mother’s got quite the weight here as it is.”
She’d written about the farm, about the worries of the farmers, who would have no land left to pass down to their future generations. Her land. Their children.
The phrases nagged her. In one paragraph, hadn’t she allowed just a pinch of blackmail? Just a hint of what was at stake? Her heart jumped at the stab of panic. Maybe she should go back and strike that bit, but they were at the bottom of the road. It was too late, unless she rewrote the whole letter at Jutta’s. Then she would truly have to explain herself.
She turned to her daughter. “Hurry, child, or it will just take longer.”
When they reached the guesthouse, she opened the door and greeted Frau Prieth, who was just coming out, still smelling of fresh-baked bread, then slipped into the small room that served as the new post office. Before she could change her mind, Katharina handed Enrico the envelope.
“No, Signora. In italiano. Non Bozen. Bolzano. Non Südtirol. Alto Adige.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. You told me last time.” She smiled
